


Let These Wounds Speak

by waltzmatildah



Category: Grey's Anatomy, The Vampire Diaries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU for the GA season six finale.</p><p>
  <i>He'd only come here to grab some take-away. And suddenly he was being handed the three hat buffet.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let These Wounds Speak

He can smell the copper stench slow seconds before the elevator grinds to a halting stop. His jaw aches in anticipation of what the yawning metallic doors will deliver him. He can hear the commotion on the floor below. Jabs at the call button just in time to curtail the carriage's continued descent into chaos.

The reveal is every bit as spectacular as he'd hoped. Stops him to stilled in his tracks for a fragmented second before instinct kicks well and truly to in. Has him blurring his way through crimson rivulets and fast congealing pools of acrid blood. Slamming the emergency stop button to almost shattered and taking a minute or several just to... watch.

He'd only come here to grab some take-away. And suddenly he was being handed the three hat buffet.

 

 

*

 

 

The buzz of the bourbon he'd had for breakfast is fast fading. He thinks this treat will have come just in time as he runs the tip of his index finger through the mess. The smell is over-whelming and he itches to tear at the ruined cotton that covers the dying man's terrorised chest. He can hear a heart beat. Irregular. Too fast and then too slow.

Makes a decision he's sure he'll come to regret but refuses to care in that finite instant.

Figures he's done the solo thing for long enough. About time he bought another baby into the world. Something to call his own.

He could use a wing-man. If only for the night.

 

 

*

 

 

He throws his head back then. Relishes the familiar sting as century old fangs descend on command. Taps insistently at a cheek that is colder than it should be and forces his own jagged wrist against lips that take a moment to react.

He's never had a human resist him. Dares this one to be the first.

Feels only a cursory flash of disappointment when it's not.

 

 

*

 

 

The man wakes then, startled. Inhales and chokes and can't quite combine his limbs into movement that is even remotely co-ordinated. The fear is his eyes is fleeting. Fades before it fully forms.

This is new.

And so very interesting. Like maybe he's not the most horrific thing to have happened to this person. Gaping bullet wound aside of course.

“Shhhh...” he rumbles, whisper soft. “It'll all be over soon.”

It's somewhat against his nature to be comforting. Thinks he only offers the words because the injured man doesn't seem to want them.

To need them.

The irregular edge of crushed velvet continues to creep its way across the faded linoleum to his toe tips. Proof positive that it won't be long now as the small amount of blood he'd offered fails to heal in time.

Just as he'd planned.

 

 

*

 

 

The floor below has fallen into hushed panic. Voices, just the right side of hysterical, float up through the elevator shaft, fill the endless void to full and overflowing with words of whispered horror.

His favourite soundtrack.

The dull thud of the drum accompaniment finally falls to silent then. Eyes closed, perpetually stained lips dropped into a soundless O.

It won't be long now.

He settles in to wait.

 

 

*

 

 

He is re-born seventeen minutes later.

And the process will never fail to confound him. One hundred and forty odd years and the macarbe wonder with which he can take life but hand over eternity in its place has yet to lose its degree of _how the fuck?_

They're face to face now. The fear that was never really there has morphed into a curious mix of incensed confusion.

“Hi.” He offers up a corresponding wave. A slight ripple of his raised fingers. Quirks his head a little to the left and grins. “Welcome to forever.”

And maybe the booze is still tickling at his periphery after all.

 

 

*

 

 

The baby is edgy. They're at their most enjoyable when they're like this. As tentative as a deer caught in the looming headlights of a Mac truck. Easily persuaded, moulded. Not yet truly horrified by the indecency that has been done to them.

Not yet cognizant of the abomination they're now doomed to become.

“What did you do to me?”

The words tumble out in a rush. Spill across the slick and sliding mirage of liquid that sits between them. A barricade of sorts.

“I saved your life.” Shrugs his shoulders like the answer is neon-light obvious.

“No.” Definant. Sure but not at all in the same exhaled syllable.

“Actually, _yes_. But I'll explain all that later.” A pause, then, “Surely you must be starving.” He brings his eyes up on that note, raises them beneath his lashes in a way that he knows from past experience is more than three steps to seductive. “I know I am.”

 

 

*

 

 

The baby keeps running hands that no longer shake over a torso that is no longer hemorrhaging life onto the cold floor. He can see the leaked blood smearing over the lines of his palm. Disappearing under fingernails and beneath the thick band of his watch.

“Want me to show you something awesome?” he offers. Shifts to kneeling in the puddled blood. Reaches out, palms up at first, cautious not to spook his young charge any more than he already is, wraps his fingers around the other man's wrist and twists it 'til his palm is towards him.

“See your lifeline?” He points, thinks briefly that the dude doesn't really strike him as the palm reading typle, “Right there?” _Amid the smear of your own insides_ he doesn't bother to add.

Waits for a nod that doesn't come. Continues nonetheless.

“Lick it.”

Eyes snap to his at that. “What?”

“Lick it. Trust me.”

He pushes the wrist towards his lips, silent encouragement.

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Play along.”

And really, the guy is already showing a degree of restraint that belies his newly turned status. But he cracks then, inches his wrist forward by degrees and flicks his tongue out between teeth that must postitively _itch_.

It is all that it takes.

 

 

*

 

 

He sits back and watches the show. Doesn't start the elevator into action again until the floor is clean once more. It's animalistic. Grotesque in a way he's never before had the priviledge to witness.

Hands and knees and lips and tongue and fingertips.

And he kind of likes the poetry of turning a man with his very own blood. The symmetry of it is startling.

Pure.

He thinks they're going to get along just fine.


End file.
